Misery Loves Company
by ACompanyofSwans
Summary: Collection of drabbles about the rather twisted relationship of Elyon and Phobos, using lyrics of Emile Autumn's 'Misery Loves Company'. See inside for details.


Misery Loves Company

I am not the owner of the comics/TV series W.I.T.C.H. nor the lyrics to Emile Autumn's 'Misery Loves Company'. Full credit goes to the original creators. This fic is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Note: Originally I wanted to do a big, full blown multi chaptered fic about Elyon going to Meridian when she's older, and this time knowing about Phobos' true nature from the start, and working as a kind of double agent. I actually have a decent chunk of it written, but it remains incomplete. I'm not saying I will never post it, just that due to recent personal traumas it will not happen any time soon – in the meantime, I did want to do something on these two, so _voila_!

Skipped out a couple choruses of the song – just didn't want the repetition.

An older Elyon's POV, and be warned, although there is only one brief explicit moment in here, there are sexual themes and mentions of incest. Also, spoilers for the comics.

Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.

_It's not the time, It's not the place,_

_I'm just another pretty face, _

_So don't come any closer_

You're in your pretty white coronation gown, and his eyes are raking over you. He hates anything fragile, anything innocent. You saw him snipping the tinier rosebuds at the foot of the throne one day.

"Sometimes one has to sacrifice the weaker buds, no matter how pleasing they seem, to make way for something more beautiful."

How true. But in what way? Is he cutting down his little sister to allow himself more agency to rise more powerful than ever? She used to think so. Or is he hacking away at the more superfluous elements of her personality to allow her to blossom?

Superfluous elements being her innocence, optimism and basic morality of course.

But now is not the time.

The Coronation is tonight, and he stands well away, allowing the black rose to engulf her.

_You're not the first, you're not the last,_

_How many more? __**Don't even ask.**_

_You're one more dead composer._

You're still on your back, one hand holding a silken sheet around your naked form. After your chest has ceased rising and falling so violently, you looks dispassionately to the already sleeping man beside you. He's some Lord's son or other.

Christ, you doesn't even know his name.

You rise, ignoring his sleepy protests as you yank the sheet from him, wrapping it more securely around yourself as you step onto the balcony for some air.

You admire the sight that you fought so hard and so long for. Your brother is locked away in the chasms of the earth, for all his pains.

He's gone. He's not coming back.

_Do I need you? Yes and no  
Do I want you? Maybe so  
You're getting warm, you're getting warm  
You're getting warmer oh  
Did you plan this all along?  
Did you care if it was wrong?  
Who's getting warmer now  
That I'm gone?_

How did it come to this? Pressed against the bars of his cell, his hand tangled in your hair, for all the good it does – you can leave any time you want to. That's the trouble.

The magic in the bars burns your skin – the touch is fatal to its prisoners, but because it is Elyon's magic it never fully turns against you. Phobos can smell the other man in your hair and growls, pulling you closer, wanting the bars to purge all evidence from your previous encounter from your skin, not caring how cruelly it burns, but always careful never to brush against the bars himself.

When it's all over, you straighten your robe, pull your hair down over your neck to hide the marks, and leave. He does not have that luxury and the idea of the sweat cooling on his skin and his breath gradually slowing as he comes back to earth almost gives you pause and makes you turn around for more.

You call the guards back to their stations, and return to the Palace.

A Lady never keeps her servants waiting.

_Misery loves company  
And company loves more  
More loves everybody else  
But hell is others  
_

You're both far too alike, really. Even in appearance, you might as well be twins these days. You take delight in matching your robes to his, unnerving him when he sees a more feminine version of himself on the throne, when he sees his own sin staring back at him in bed. He ruined you, so you do the same to him.

And the same again, to any other unlucky would-be suitor who is foolish enough to make eyes at you.

You're both constant reminders of each other's misery.

_I'm not for you  
You're not for me  
I'll kill you first  
You wait and see  
You devil undercover  
You're not a prince  
You're not a friend  
You're just a child  
And in the end  
You're one more selfish lover_

A smile of triumph touches your lips as the light of your power engulfs him. It seems a miracle that you even can smile, in a place like this. Where the people have poisoned you, where the shadows loom, where the very air is dense and choking.

But you do. He's nothing more than a covetous little boy who held his jealousies and hatred close to his heart, suspicious of anyone who might try to empathise or take them away from him. At one point, they were all he had – now they are all he is. Without them he's nothing.

You will let him keep his bitterness. Forcing redemption would be the cruellest thing, now.

And in the night, you let him work out his anger on you. You let him finish first and do not complain – '_I can take this much from her. she has everything else, I will not bring her more_ satisfaction', you hear him think.

You smile and lean over to kiss him.

_You're so easy to read  
But the book is boring me  
You're so easy to read  
But the book is boring me  
You're so easy to read  
But the book is boring  
Boring boring boring boring  
Boring boring me_

His facade is painfully easy to see through. She wishes he would show his true colours – they are no less distasteful to her, but at least there is something honest in them.

His current attitude – it is like trying to use clown make up to paint a jolly smile on a corpse – if there must be a corpse, let there also be the stench of decay, the glassy stare of death.

This ... this_ thing _should not be wrapped in the guise of some saccharine sweet, caring older brother. The softer illusion is far more terrifying than the reality.

Come on Phobos. Show me your true colours. Show me what I already know – that you're just as sick and twisted as I am.

Show me that I'm not alone.

_Pray for me  
If you want to  
Pray for me  
If you care  
Pray for me  
If you want to  
Pray for me  
If you dare  
Pray for me  
If you want to  
Pray for me  
If you care  
Pray for me  
If you want to  
Pray for me you fucker  
If you fucking dare_

Standing on the edge of the abyss, your brother proclaims that he will never be imprisoned again.

He chooses death then.

Good.

Perhaps you will get some peace.

But before he jumps, he gives you a look.

It is filled with pity. Bastard. You're not better than me.

He jumps.

Even at his own suicide, he could not set you free.

_Misery loves company  
And company loves more  
More loves everybody else  
But hell is others_

It's funny to remember that Phobos was the more guilt ridden one of the two of you – after you were done visiting his bed, it was he who would lie staring at the ceiling, brooding in consternation.

He thought himself so above it all.

But that never stopped him any more than it stopped you. After all, a lady never goes where she isn't invited.


End file.
